


Fortunate Son

by Watergirl1968



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Jearmin Summer Splash 2015, M/M, vietnam!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4549599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl1968/pseuds/Watergirl1968
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FORTUNATE SON is a multi-generational Jearmin fic that takes readers from Da Nang, Vietnam in 1969 to modern day Tofino, BC, Canada. </p><p>In a unique twist, we have not one, but two Jearmin relationships explored in the story; that of Jean and Armin, young University students who are reluctant roommates; and also that of their grandfathers, Jean-Paul (J.P.) and Armin Sr. (Dutchie), who are platoon comrades during the Vietnam conflict.</p><p>Fortunate Son explores the ripples and after-effects of war, and how one forbidden love has shaped four lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MAY 2015: Manhattan, NYC

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the Jearmin Splash 2015, a team-based writing competition!
> 
> My Prompt: “War does not determine who is right, only who is left” - Bertrand Russell
> 
> Team: AU
> 
> Word Count: 10068
> 
> TO PARTICIPATE: Kindly see end notes for FEEDBACK instructions for the competition! VOTING CONCLUDES Aug. 26 on this fic! PLEASE COMMENT!
> 
> Event banner created by benriya-nic-kerdoodle.tumblr.com

Manhattan, New York City  
May 2015

"Grandpa!" Armin called. "Grandpa, where are you?"

Armin Arlert slammed the front door of his Grandpa's brownstone, after having let himself in. He was flushed with excitement, blue eyes bright beneath his cycling helmet.

"Grandpa?"

He strode through the house, it's muted calm like cool water.

"Grandpa, where are you? _Grandpa!_ "

Out in the small back garden, stooped over a bed of herbs, Armin's Grandpa heard a sudden racket; the bright young voice of his eighteen-year-old grandson calling his name, in tandem with his grey mackaw, Oz, echoing him: _"Grandpa! Grandpa! Grandpaaaa!"_

Grandpa snorted. "Good gravy, what a commotion! I'm right here, aren't I?"

Armin burst out the back screen door and vaulted down the stone steps into the backyard. A letter flapped in one hand, his bike lock swung wildly from the other. His cycling helmet was askew. He trotted over to the garden, as his Grandpa rose slowly, joints complaining.

"Grandpa," the deep blue eyes glowed happily, "Look! I got it! Full scholarship…and residence!" Armin flapped the letter excitedly.

Grandpa pulled his glasses out of his pocket and accepted the letter. _University of British Columbia, Canada. Oceanography Program_ , it was headed. The letter contained a scholarship and housing offer.

Armin sucked his lips into his mouth and held them there as his eyes grew wide. It was the closest approximation of a joyful expression that the boy could muster.

"Grandpa! Grandpa!" cried Oz, the mackaw.

The bird's tone was different than the young man's. Oz had begun to mimic Armin when the boy had been about nine, before his parents had died. When Oz squawked _'Grandpa'_ , It was a joyful burst of sound; and indeed, Armin had been a bubbly, vocal youngster. After the accident which had claimed his parents' lives, Armin's sun had dimmed, leaving the boy serious, thoughtful, and much less inclined to laughter.

Family and friends had taken to poking at the serious teen, urging him toward gaity. _Come on Armin, smile._

His Grandpa had seen himself reflected in the serious, cherubic face. He didn't try and force things; he allowed Armin to unfold at his own pace. _There is nothing wrong with you_ , he had reminded the boy.

Grandpa regarded Armin, standing in the garden of his New York brownstone, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. Mouth set and serious, but eyes gleaming. About to set off on the adventure of a lifetime.

"I'm happy," Armin said quietly.

"Yes, I know that," his Grandpa said warmly. "Help me clear the yard up and then we'll take a better look at this."

__________

The brass doorplate outside of the brownstone read: _Dr. Armin van Arlert, Psychiatry_. Grandpa's offices were to the left as one entered; they were cozy and orderly. Grandpa's private rooms were to the right, and were a riot of books, newspapers, plants and curios, all presided over by Oz, his twenty-four-year-old grey mackaw parrot.

His grandson Armin's room was on the second floor. It was spare and clean, with an aura of impermanence that his Grandpa understood. This was young Armin's temporary nest, and, having selected UBC, he would take wing and fly far, to study on the west coast of Canada.

Armin spread the letter on the dining table as his Grandpa set out iced tea and Chelsea buns. The youth read the letter again, noting the login information it contained.

"Are you sure that letter isn't for me?" Grandpa teased. "For I'm 'Armin' as well."

"Yes, I'm sure," without a hint of irony. "You are Armin _van_ Arlert and I am just Armin Arlert."

Armin took a long swallow of ice tea, and a chomp of Chelsea bun.

"Poor Oz," croaked the mackaw, "no buns."

"Nothing sugary," Grandpa said firmly. "You can have a piece of apple later."

"Grandpa!" Oz squawked.

Armin had his Grandpa's Mac Book open, and was thumbing through the UBC website, leaving a wake of sticky prints on the keys.

Grandpa sat beside him, perusing the pages. Armin logged in, and was directed to a welcome page. "Look! Look at this residence!" he pointed, "It's amazing!"

"So, you'll share a room?"

"Yeah."

"How are those assigned?" Grandpa wondered.

"Well, you can be randomly assigned, or you can post on the message board. Here."

Armin scrolled to the residence message board. "Look. There are a few posts from students in my program." His brow creased. "I suppose I should call a few of them."

Grandpa tapped the screen. He said nothing for a few minutes, and then a crooked smile crossed his seamed face.

"Look here," he said. "Kirschstein. I knew a Kirschstein, years ago. Good, solid people. Give this one a call."


	2. JUNE 2015: Tofino, B.C. Canada

The boy wore hurt, like a thick sweater, despite the dazzling summer heat of Tofino Beach. He stood on the sandy floorboards of Pegleg Surf Shop, sullen and unsure.

A warm breeze gusted, shivering through the wind chimes that hung outside the surf shop and fluttering the garments displayed on it's porch. 

Pegleg Surf Shop was located right on the beach at Chesterman Bay, and the cool blue swells beckoned through the wide-open windows.

The boy looked around curiously, his mother behind him, encouraging and nervous.

"What's your name, son?" Jean-Paul Kirschstein leaned on the counter of his surf shop, regarding the wary boy. 

"Tanner."

"Tanner. Nice to meet you. I'm J.P."

"Hey," the boy nodded through a red-purple fringe.

"Tanner," filled in his mother, "wants to learn how to surf."

The boy turned his head, fixing her with an angry glare. "It's a waste of time, mom," he said through gritted teeth. He turned back to the man behind the counter. "Right?"

The man behind the counter had a long, angular face, tanned and windburned, and a shock of sandy hair threaded with grey, sticking up at all angles like a mad troll. Around his neck he wore silver dog tags, which swung freely as he leaned over the counter. He had colourful string bracelets adorning both wrists, and a tiny tiger's eye stud in his nose. All in all, he was the most peculiar old person Tanner had ever seen.

"I don't think," the man said, fixing Tanner with keen hazel eyes, "that it's a waste of time at all."

Tanner crossed his arms across his chest. "I have one leg," he said flatly. 

J.P. leaned a little further over the counter. The boy had an artificial prosthetic limb, beginning below his knee joint. "Huh," he said thoughtfully, "so you do."

"So how am I supposed to _surf?_ " Tanner asked pointedly.

J.P. Kirschstein stepped out from behind the counter and stood in front of the boy. Tanner's eyes widened. The older man had an artificial leg as well; sleek and titanium.

"So," J.P. nodded, "I can surf. Been doin' it for years. Won two titles, as it happens. And if an old, one-legged fart like me can surf, I know you'd be able to stick it. What d'you say?"

The surf shop door banged open and shut. A tall young man sauntered in from the beach, leaving a dripping trail across the shop floor as he opened the glass door of the fridge and helped himself to a pomegranate juice. 

J.P. jerked a thumb in the young man's direction, "This's Jean, my grandson," he said to Tanner.

"Morning!" Jean greeted the customers brightly. "Pop, a few of us are headed to Cox Bay this afternoon, okay?"

"Are you Jean Kirschstein?" Tanner asked shyly.

"Yeah," the young man smiled, extending a damp hand to Tanner and to his mother. He wore a _PrideSurf 2013_ tee shirt and board shorts.

"I watched you surf at Big Roll," Tanner ventured.

Jean chuckled. "Cool. You like surfing?"

"I love it! But…"

Jean's eyes narrowed. "Aw, never mind…my Pop's an amazing teacher! You'll be awesome! Welcome!" and with that, young Jean whirled out the door, the chimes tinkling and clanking as the screen banged shut behind him.

__________

Jean was roused out of bed early the next morning. Deep Purple's _Smoke on the Water_ resounded from the kitchen, and the heady aroma of perked Kicking Horse coffee and melting butter wafted through J.P.'s A-frame beach house.

Jean sat up, eyes stuck shut, and ran a hand through his sandy hair. He sported an undercut, shaved sides and spiked top. He eased his long frame over the side of his bed, and peered at his phone. 6:45 am. Deep Purple. at six in the morning. _Jeezus._

"Jeanbo!" J.P. bellowed from the kitchen.

Jean just shook his head. He pulled on his swim trunks and padded into the kitchen.

J.P. stood at the stove, grooving to the music like a weathered scarecrow, beating eggs and pouring them into a pan of sauteed mushroom and apple. To this he added smoked brie, and waited patiently.

_Smoke on the water…Fire in the sky…._

"Pop," croaked Jean. 

J.P. wore a Hawaiian print shirt, cargo shorts and one flip-flop. On his head, for reasons Jean could only guess at, was a pair of welding goggles. He turned, a brilliant white smile splitting his browned face. "There he is!" 

"Surf's up at MacKenzie today," Pop declared.

Jean eased himself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, pulling a mug of steaming coffee closer.

"Pop, I have school stuff to sort out, man."

J.P. snorted. "Bah! We're going to MacKenzie!"

Jean propped his chin on his hand, eyes closed. "I need to find a roomie, Pop."

A clunk. Jean opened his eyes. Sighed and smiled. He'd been presented with a fluffy, two-inch-high golden omelette, oozing melted brie.

J.P. leaned over, both he and Jean regarding his creation. It was perfect. 

Jean picked up his fork. J.P. held up a hand, his bracelets clinking.

"No, son…not yet…just look at 'er…respect the perfection…that is a Kirschstein omelette…"

"Amen to that," Jean favoured his Pop with an identical, lopsided grin, digging in.

"Amen!"

__________

Jean and J.P. hit the beach in the late afternoon. J.P. rode a modified board, his style seasoned and sure after over forty years with a prosthetic limb.

Young Jean had begun spending summers in Tofino at age twelve. J.P.'s long-suffering wife, Jacquie, had finally had enough of him, and had moved to the mainland. 

Their daughter, Maya, had packed her twelve-year-old off to Tofino for the summer. So he could get to know his eclectic grandfather, 'Pop'.

"Don't drown him," Maya had said to her father. "he's only twelve."

J.P.'s eyes had widened in mock horror. "Of course I won't, sweetheart!" he declared, "I'm a harmless old man, now."

Maya had snorted.

The next day, J.P. had taken the rangy kid to the big swells at Cox Bay and nearly drowned him. And Jean had fallen in love with surfing.

The year Jean had turned sixteen, and against her better judgement, Maya had allowed Jean to move in with his grandfather and compete on the local circuit.

"School comes first," she'd cautioned her father. 

"Yes, dear," J.P. had nodded sagely.

"I'm serious, don't fuck this up, dad. He's bright and he wants to go to UBC."

"Don't cuss, honey," J.P. had drawled. Maya had hung up the phone.

Grandfather and grandson drifted, astride their boards, in MacKenzie Bay, out past the swells, watching the evening colours deepen.

"No better place on this earth, kid," J.P. mused. And he meant it. The ocean had saved his health, his battered body and probably his life. But he felt a twinge of guilt, nonetheless.

"Jeanbo, I need to do the right thing for you," he said quietly. "You want me to rent us a little apartment near campus? I'd gladly come down to the city with you."

Jean chuckled, then his expression grew serious. "Pop…you know I love you."

He leaned forward, paddling around to face the old man who was a local legend. "But I need to go to school on my own. You know…I need to live there. Be there. If I lived with you…well, it'd be one things after another interfering with school. Mayhem. Like usual."

"You sound like your mother."

Jean rolled his eyes.

"Don't," said J.P.  "I'm very proud of your mother. She's a good girl. The only good thing I ever did. You get your brains from her, you know." the older man stretched, "and your God-given, fine good looks from me!"

 


	3. JULY 2015: UBC, Vancouver, B.C.

"One thing at a time," Armin had told himself. "I'll get there in the end," and he huffed across UBC campus with a duffel bag as large as he was, slung across his body.

First, orientation. Then, check-in. Forms. Then, the enrollment office. More forms, and a printed schedule. Then, the housemaster. He was given the key to room 311.

The University's Vancouver Campus, Totem Park, was lush and green. Armin had arrived two days prior, and had spent the previous night at a motel near the airport. His nerves had been so bad he'd thrown up and called his Grandpa three times. He'd fallen asleep listening to his Grandpa read to him.

 _I'm not ready for this. I still have my Grandpa reading to me_ , he'd sighed.

And yet, here he was, in front of room 311. The room in which he was to live for the school year. Raising a hand, he knocked softly.

 _I suppose I don't have to knock_ , he chided himself. He turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open. A dorm room, for two. Orderly and sparse, but with a breathtaking view that made up for the lack.

Armin sucked his breath in excitedly. The empty wire hangers in the closet and bare shelves in the bathroom evidenced the fact that he was the first of the room's two occupants to check in.

He walked cautiously into the room. Looked at both beds, and sat on the lefthand one. It squeaked. He put down his duffel bag. For whatever reason, his heart was hammering. His toes curled inside his sneakers. Excitement.

Armin unzipped his duffel bag, removed his clothes and hung them in the left side of the closet. He was careful to leave an equal amount of room on the right. Next, he went into the bathroom and lined up his toothpaste, deodorant, and hair gel. Wistfully, he placed a small can of shaving cream on the shelf. The few hairs that grew on his cheeks and chin would at lease be dealt with properly, now that he was a man living on his own.

He took out his bedsheets, neatly making up the single bed.

Lastly, he removed a fancy box of Long Island caramels from his bag, and placed it on the unoccupied bed. The box of candy had a small tag attached to it. Armin had simply written 'Jean' on it, in ballpoint pen.

Having second thoughts, he picked up the box; hesitated, and put it back onto the bed.

All of this accomplished, he decided to take himself for a walk. He closed the door carefully, and locked it.

__________

Armin explored all afternoon. In the quad, he had come across a Student Union barbecue. He walked back to his room, happily munching on a sausage.

As soon as he reached the third floor, he heard classic rock thumping through the walls. He frowned, hoping that he and Jean didn't have overly-disruptive neighbours.

He turned the key in the lock, took stock of the room and dropped the last of his sausage onto the floor.

His lovely, tidy room had been turned into a psychedelic madhouse.

The bed opposite his was mounded with a huge duvet, strewn with clothes and books. The dresser beside bore a dizzying array of bottles, a glass terrarium, and a sandwich press. The windows had been draped in purple cheesecloth, and, on the wall above the opposite bed, a massive surfboard hung. Onto it was painted a wolf's paw in rainbow colours and below it, a logo: _PrideSurf XIII._

The music, it turned out, belonged to his roommate as well; Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith, at full volume.

Armin's roommate - gosh, he was tall! - was standing on his bed, on top of the pile of clothing noisily drilling into the ceiling and singing at full volume. Plaster showered down into his belongings.

"Good gravy," Armin lamented, his voice lost in the wall of sound and insanity.

He bent, picking up the rest of his sausage bun, and stepped into the room.

His candy box had been torn open, and the handsome, angular face that turned toward him then was chewing happily.

The young man's jawline was sharp, his hair a brush-topped undercut. He had a very respectable stubble, Armin noted a tad enviously.

Jean, he assumed, bounced a little on the bed and favoured him with an enormous grin. "Hiya!" he yelled above the stereo. "You hungry?"

He vaulted off the bed, opened the sandwich maker and yelped as he fingered a squished sandwich onto a paper plate. "Here," he smiled, "hot salami and cheese!"

"Hot sa…" Armin stared.

Jean jumped back onto the bed, screwed a hook into the ceiling and hung a blacklight from it.

Armin looked from his sandwich, to the terrarium on the dresser. What was inside?

He peered in, and yelped. A spider, the size of a golfball with legs.

Horrified, he pulled the ipod off of the music deck.

Jean looked down, slightly perplexed.

"I'm….I'm pretty sure cooking appliances aren't allowed," Armin said quietly. "And I know for a fact that tarantulas aren't!"

"How's the sandwich?" Jean asked affably.

Armin sat on his bed, at a loss.

Jean - for this must be the boy he'd spoken to on the phone - extended a hand to him. "You must be Armin?" he smiled, displaying a row of even, white teeth.

"Armin. Armin Arlert," Armin nodded. His heart was sinking. How could this have happened? On the phone, Jean had sounded warm, accommodating. He'd sounded, well, _safe_ , Armin had thought.

Jean stepped off the bed, hands on his hips, sizing up the beach shack he'd turned the dorm room into. Nodded, satisfied. "It'll do," he said easily. Then: "Where you from?"

Armin stared at Jean Kirschstein. Then at the sandwich. The surfboard. The tarantula. "Manhattan."

"Whoa," Jean whistled appreciatively. "Posh."

And then, he began pulling off his clothes until he was naked; sweaty Billabong cutoff tee, board shorts, briefs. These were discarding in a pile on the floor. Armin's face flamed and he stared fixedly at his sandwich.

"Well, that's all done. I'm gonna grab a shower!" Jean announced, slinging a towel over his shoulder.

Armin sat on his bed, clutching his pressed salami sandwich, stunned.

__________

Armin tested the sandwich, finding it delicious. In the tiny bathroom, Jean audibly splashed, lathered, sang and rinsed. Armin swallowed. He looked around, curious despite himself.

Jean had tie-dyed pillowcases on his pillows. A jumble of colourful sneakers under his bed. And his board, sleek and massive, dominated the far wall. PridesSurf. Pride. Surf. Hmmmm….

"How's it taste?" Jean had walked back into the room, scrubbing at his spiky hair.

"I-I-I…"

He pulled on fresh underwear, and a pair of old, butter-soft jeans.

"You don't mind having a gay roomie, do ya?" Jean asked, plopping himself onto the end of Armin's bed.

"No!" Armin answered hotly. What did this Jean think of him? That he was a bigot?

Silence.

"My Grandpas are gay. I'm not a prejudiced person, if that's what you were implying."

Jean leaned back on one elbow, regarding the cherub who was munching on a melted cheese sandwich. Armin wore a cotton collared shirt, buttoned up to the neck, and a little brown vest. _A vest_. His hair was a sweet butter blond, an odd length, and he had a fringe of bangs. Beneath the bangs, a pair of round, serious blue eyes. They might have been made of lapis.

"Gay Grandpas, huh?" Jean asked curiously.

"Well, I did. My Grandpa Eric has passed away. My Grandpa Armin is a psychiatrist. And he is gay."

"My pop - that's my Grandpa - is a nutcase."

This seemed logical to Armin, given his observations of Jean. "I see."

Jean regarded the somber, neat kid. With the hair. It was like…"

"So, are you Amish?"

Armin blinked. Regarded the strange hippie lying across his bed. Jean had a small silver bolt stud through his nipple. It made Armin feel strange.

"No," he said without a trace of irony. "I am not. I am not Amish."

__________

Two weeks later, Armin sat in the housemaster's office. He blinked down at the form he was to fill out. _Request for Housing Transfer_ , it was headed. He'd neatly printed his name. His current room number, 311. The next line on the form read: _Reason for Transfer Request_. Reason. Gosh, where to start.

Jean Kirschstein rose every morning, just after six a.m. He awoke loudly, rudely and full of sunshiney noise that jangled Armin's nerves at such an early hour. He cooked. Indeed it was sorcery what he could produce with the hotplate. He always made something for Armin. He was noisy. There was always music, movies, games. Friends coming and going. It was impossible for Armin to study at his desk. He'd tried. Jean's phone rang constantly.

Also…Jean had a habit of wandering around naked, or near-naked alot of the time. Armin noticed - as if he had much choice - that Jean had a light dusting of hair on his chest. And darker hair elsewhere. Armin had gone into the bathroom and shut the door. He'd unbuttoned his pyjama top and stared at his own smooth chest. Was there a hair? Maybe?

All in all…he felt entirely off-balance. As if his skin was inside-out. There was no way he could succeed in such a chaotic environment. His course of study was demanding enough without The Beach Boys, a tarantula and a beer bong.

Reason:

He swallowed. Jean's kindness was not lost on him. This loud, odd, naked young man had befriended him immediately. Armin had very few friends. Only Eren and Mikasa at home. He'd decided to sit Jean down and see if there was room for….well, for some compromise. And then….

He'd been walking back toward their room just hours ago. He'd heard Jean's voice, loud and mirthful. There were other people in their room. Jean's young friends, Farlan and Isabel. They were surfers, too.

Jean had been telling a story…he'd had to stop frequently, guffawing loudly, trying to remain coherent. The story had been about Armin.

Armin picked up the pen in the housemaster's office, and beside the request for a reason, he'd written: INCOMPATIBLE.

__________

EARLIER

"He's sweet," Isabel sat on Armin's neatly-made bed, cross-legged, drinking beer from a tin.

Jean lounged in his study chair, feet up on his desk, hands behind his head.

"Yep."

"He's weird," Farlan added, "but very, very nice. Serious, but he's nice. Did you notice how he always stands up when Izzy comes into the room? And offers her his seat?"

"And he doesn't sneeze on me like some people, Farlan," Isabel chuckled.

"That was an accident."

"It was spray. You sprayed snot on me."

"So, his family is interesting," Jean continued. "check this out. His Grandpa and his other Grandpa are a couple. Were. One passed away. The two of them engaged a surrogate woman, to carry a child for them. This was like, back in the seventies. So they raised a son. They'd both been in the war. In Vietnam."

"Your Pop was also in Vietnam," Farlan remarked.

"Yeah, he was." Jean stared blankly at the video game they had on pause. "He lost his leg in 'Nam."

"Jean, " Isabel said quietly, "d'you like Armin?"

"Awww. Pffffttt…." Jean wheeled around in the chair. "What. Even if I did like him like, what? He thinks I'm a fucking nutter."

Jean shook his head. "Fuck….so, listen to this…." he began to laugh. "Listen to how stupid I am. Just listen to this….So, the day we met…."

"Four weeks ago?" Farlan interjected.

"Four weeks, about that, yeah. So it's like the first day. He comes in. I'm decorating. He - honestly - he looks like he's gonna _pee_ himself. He's got all his neat little shoes and neat little bottles all lined up and I'm just like…HELLOOOOOO WORLD!!..."

"….So I'm trying to get to know him…trying…you know…like, 'where ya from' that sort of chat…and you know his hair?"

"What did you do, asshole?" Isabel grimaced.

"His weird little hairstyle and his _vest_ …I was just like…" Jean doubled over, hooting at his own clumsiness. "Damn, Izzy, I go….." he choked on his own chuckles, "I go…..are… _are you….AMISH!!!"_

Farlan snorted. "You…."

"Like…" tears ran down Jean's face, "Like…are you _Amish_ …"

Isabel looked up. Saw Armin standing in the doorway. Silent. His small mouth, tight and bitter. Eyes bright with tears. And then, he was gone.

The three friends stood, ashen.

"You fucking dick," Isabel said quietly. "go after him, Jean. Explain. Explain that you were laughing at your own stupid, dumb self…."

__________

INCOMPATIBLE.

Jean spotted him on the quad.

"Armin!"

"Go away!"

Armin stomped across the darkening quad, away from the housemaster's office, where he's just finished filling out his transfer request.

"Armin, please stop."

Armin whirled, caused Jean to nearly collide with him.

"I've put in for a room transfer," Armin said in a small choked voice. "I can't live with you. You're….you're loud, rude, chaotic and impossible."

"I know," Jean stood close to the smaller boy, looking down at him, eyes soft.

"It's like...every day with you is like a ride gone out of control. I can't study, I can't think. You're very, very messy. _Very_ messy."

"Yes," Jean nodded.

"And even, even if I'd had a change of heart before, my mind is made up now. I may not be adept at social cues, but that, right now, laughing at me? And my hair? That was mean. Mean-spirited and juvenile…and…and disloyal. I won't be the butt of your jokes. I'm not the village idiot."

"I don't think you're an idiot."

Armin looked up, small face resolute.

"Armin," Jean pleaded softly, "Armin, please stay."

"I found Szechuan noodles in my bed. _In my bed,_ Jean!"

"Yeah, about that…I'm sorry…."

"Noodles. That is not okay!"

Jean stepped closer, closing the gap between them. "Come home with me."

Armin swiped at his eyes. Jean's hands were on his shoulders. They were large, and warm. Jean smelled like suntan lotion and trouble. Armin gave a shaky sigh. "Okay. Maybe we can talk about changing some things. Because this isn't working out as it is.."

"No," Jean shook his head. "I mean, come home with me, to Tofino. On weekends. And on breaks. Just come with me. Hang with me."

Armin looked down, face fire-hot.

"Is that a yes?"

Armin bit his lip. Jean had hair on his chest, and a silver bolt through one nipple.

"Okay. I'll come."


	4. AUGUST 1969: Da Nang, Vietnam

_"Just Arlert?" J.P. had said into the phone. "not Van Arlert?"_

_"No, Pop. I dunno. He's just Armin. Can I bring him?"_

_"Jeanbo, bring anybody you like," J.P. crooked the phone under his chin as he rang up a customer's order at the till._

_"Happy to have 'im." The customer left the store. A pause. "What's he look like?"_

_"Whadda you mean?" Jean asked._

_"I dunno. Is he a wee little kid about shoulder-high, blond hair?"_

_"Yeah! How'd you know?"_

_J.P. sat down slowly on the stool behind his till. Ran a hand through his hair._

_"Stutters?"_

_Jean laughed. "Yup."_

_"Jeezus….really?"_

_"Pop, do you know him?" Jean asked._

_A long silence. J.P. gazed out, through the porch, to the ocean. "I think I knew his Grandpa, kid."_

 __________

VALLEY Z 210

DA NANG, VIETNAM

AUGUST 1969

Mid-morning. A thick humidity blanketed the Da Nang valley, settling on the skin like lukewarm soup. High in the trees, the squawking of parrots had been silenced by staccato gunfire. Below, on the jungle floor, The United States First Infantry Division, Bravo Company, crawled toward a ridge splitting the dense valley in two.

Third platoon Sergeant J.P. Kirschstein inched forward, held up a hand, signalling his radioman.

A rustle beside him. Two blue eyes blinked at him. "Sir?"

Sergeant Kirschstein chomped on the stump of an unlit cigar. "Somethin' stinks about this. Somethin' stinks, Dutchie."

Corporal Armin van Arlert, the platoon's radioman, crawled over to a tree, inching up behind it, peering up and down the valley. 

J.P. jerked his head to the left. "They ain't fuckin' down there, Dutchie. I'd be able to smell 'em."

"No sir,"

"They're up there on that ridge," J.P. pointed.

Young van Arlert, nicknamed 'Dutchie' by his Sergeant, wriggled over to his handset. Beside him was Danny Tran, their translator. Dutchie made contact with base. Switched channels and picked up VC chatter. His small body stiffened. He listened, sharing the handset with Danny Tran. The line went dead, and Dutchie began chattering in rapid Vietnamese with Danny Tran. 

J.P. frowned. All he could make out was 'no'. 

"Fuck, what??" he growled.

"Sarge, you were right," Dutchie hissed. "No position in the valley.  They're on the ridge, up there…" as if to emphasize the point, a crackle of gunfire zinged into the trees, from above.

"Damn it!" J.P. turned to Dutchie, "we've got an airstrike coming in to the _valley_! Charlie ain't there! Get on the horn, fuck sakes!"

Dutchie ducked, radioing the American airbase. He rattled off coordinates.

_Negative, Bravo._

"But Captain….."

Danny Tran pulled at Dutchie's sleeve, jabbering and pointing.

J.P. glared at the sky. "Jesus H. Christ if they let go in the valley, they'll block us up in here! Gimme that!"

J.P. grabbed the handset, blistering the airbase with obscenities.

_Say again, Bravo_

"Abort, fuck sakes! My radioman is right!"

_Unconfirmed, Bravo._

"My fuckin' radioman understands every fuckin' word! We're tellin' you!"

_Negative, Bravo._

His rant was cut short by the scream of Boeing aircraft overhead.

"Damn it!" J.P. snarled. "Fuck!"

The aircraft laid down a swath of fire, cutting off the platoon's escape route.

"Damn!" J.P. smashed the handset down onto the log which was affording him cover. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!" 

The mouthpiece splintered and ricocheted off of Dutchie's helmet, a metal spring sticking into it's netting.

J.P. sighted a retreat line along the river. "Fall out!" he roared, leading his men back and to the right. Once clear, he knew he'd have several knots of VC soldiers to contend with. 

The platoon made it back across the river. Armin "Dutchie" Arlert had stayed hot on his Sergeant's heels, pausing only to grab at the radio of a fallen comrade; the prone figure didn't need the handset anymore, and Dutchie did.

The platoon took cover in the same bunker they'd left hours earlier. J.P. Kirschstein slid down into it, Dutchie tumbling in after.

J.P. took a long breath. Exhaled. Looked over at the little radioman. Dutchie still had telephone debris sticking out of his helmet, which was crooked. A pair of very clear, serious blue eyes regarded him out of a dirty, heart-shaped face.

"Dutchie,"

"Sir."

"We tried, Dutchie."

A small nod. "Yes, sir, we did. We tried."

__________

Yes, he had looked like a sugar-spun fairy. Small, sweet. It was easy to make the assumption he'd be mashed pulp within a week.

Except that Sergeant J.P. Kirschstein had known better. The boy was smart. Neat, observant, quick. Always had dry socks. Extra malaria tablets. Maps in plastic. Extra parts. Extra everything.

"Don't die," he'd instructed Armin van Arlert, "I can fuckin' use you."

"Yes sir," the radioman had answered.

"van Arlert. Where you from?"

"Brooklyn, sir."

"But...what are ya?"

"Sir? Uh - well, Dutch, I suppose."

"Great. Grab your gear, Dutchie. You're with me, now."

Armin van Arlert had come from a military family, and had spent part of his childhood in Cambodia. He was fluent in english, french and Vietnamese. He spent most of 'B' Platoon's next tour crouched in the jungle, babbling with Danny Tran, hacking Viet Cong transmissions and passing intelligence on to his Sergeant. J.P. grew to trust him implicitly.

'B' Platoon had earned the nickname 'Roughhousers'. They were rough-and-tumble, tenacious and simply hard to kill. 

"Right place, right time," was the motto of their sergeant, Jean Paul "J.P." Kirschstein. He had figured out how to hack and harness both enemy and friendly radio communications, to great effect. Or rather, his radioman had. 

Dutchie, his little shadow.

"Don't you die on me, Dutchie."

"Won't happen, sir."

"Oh yeah, why's that?"

"I need to keep you alive, sir."

J.P. had laughed, a mirthful, reckless sound which baited the devil.

__________

After the failed airstrike, Bravo Company was returned to Da Nang, to regroup and lick it's wounds.

For radioman Armin 'Dutchie' van Arlert, this meant some peace and quiet and time to repair his modified, patched-together radio.

For Sergeant J.P. Kirschstein, it meant surfing, cheap beer and dancing at the Orchid Pavillion.

The Orchid Pavillion had been co-opted by the USO and hosted dances for service personnel. Set into a lush hillside in Da Nang, it was strung with patio lights and featured motown blues and dance music. It had verandahs upon which one could relax, share a meal, and lounge.

On the night of August 7th, 1969, the band was cooking, drink was flowing and J.P. Kirschstein was in fine form. He had a bellyful of cheap Hakka beer, a full dance card, and a wad of cash in his pocket.

Tall and sensual, he was a sought-after dance partner, both for his smooth style and his rough reputation. 

When the band broke between sets, J.P. wandered out onto the verandah. The sun was setting, teasing plum on the horizon. Beneath the patio lights, he saw a pale head bent over one of the outdoor tables.

"Hiya, Dutchie!" he clapped a hand onto the small shoulder. "why aren't you in there dancin'?"

"I'm playing chess with Danny Tran."

"Well, I can see that," the big Sergeant nodded at the translator. "How's tricks, Danny?"

Danny nodded back, smiling broadly. "How drunk is he?" he asked Dutchie in Vietnamese.

"Not too drunk, yet," Dutchie's eyes twinkled. 

"So loud though," Danny Tran grimaced.

Dutchie giggled.

"Y'all should come an' have a dance," J.P. concluded, heading back inside.

"Checkmate," Dutchie said softly.

"Cocksucker!" It was Danny Tran's favourite english word.

__________

A singer with a smoky voice was at the mike. Still out on the verandah, Dutchie looked in through the window. Couples swayed together on the Pavillion's wooden floor, under soft lighting. In their midst, Jean Kirschstein swept gracefully around with a slim Vietnamese girl.

Dutchie sighed.

He didn't know how to dance. And…well…he despaired of ever learning. His foot tapped idly.

"What're you doin'?" J.P. lounged in the doorway, regarding him.

"Listening,"

"So c'mon in!"

"I've been inside. I ate some shrimp rolls."

Dutchie sat down at the table, on the now-deserted verandah. Danny Tran had gone to bed after beating him two matches to one.

J.P. shifted, crossing the verandah. He sat on the table, close to Dutchie. Looked down at the blond head.

"Some other day, some other world, this place'd be heaven," J.P. mused. "Oceans, orchids, mountains."

"You see that, sir?"

"Hmmm."

"After everything we've seen? That's what you think about?"

"Yep."

He looked down at Dutchie. Noted the young man's crisp, pressed uniform. Pale fringe of hair. Neatly folded hands. Almost demure.

"Dutchie," he swallowed.

"Sir?"

"Geez, I wish you'd call me J.P. when we're at these things. Or even Jean."

"Jean," Softly.

J.P. lowered himself down onto the bench, beside Dutchie.

"D'you know how to dance?"

"N-no. Not properly."

"Now see," a crooked smile, "That won't do at all."

"I don't suppose," J.P. ventured, "that you'd want to dance with ladies anyway, given the choice, would you?"

Dutchie's hands, on either side of his hips, clenched the wooden bench upon which he sat. He tensed. The conversation unnerved him. 

_Don't ask, don't tell._

"You trust me, Dutchie?"

"I want to," a small voice.

"See, I'm guessing you'd rather dance with a fella, am I right?"

The small figure turned away, hunched in. J.P. frowned. He hadn't meant to hurt him. 

Dutchie looked back at J.P. "Yes," he squared his small shoulders, "Yes. I prefer men."

A slow nod. "Yeah, I know." 

J.P. took a long sip of his beer. Sighed. "Well," he said conversationally, "s'pose you wanted a dance with a fella? You don't know how to do that either, do you?"

"I won't be mocked," Quiet, absolute.

A large, warm hand closed over his. "Armin. My life's in your hands every goddamn day. Ain't nobody I trust more. But it's a hell of a thing to think of you blown to hell and never having had a single dance. Kills me."

This earned him a small snicker.

J.P. swallowed. "Right then. C'mon." He stood up, tugging on Dutchie's hand.

A slow melody wafted out of the Pavillion. _The Dark End of the Street._

"This is a nice tune," J.P. flashed Dutchie a grin. 

"Now then, put your hand right here," he plopped the small hand onto his shoulder. "An' I'll put mine here," he encircled the slender waist. "Now, you let me lead. You just go a little bit limp. Follow me." and he began a slow, easy dance.

__________

"Dutchie?"

"Sir?"

"Jeezus, look up, Dutchie. Don't look at my feet."

Dutchie raised his head. He was shaking. J.P. was pretending not to notice. He kept a firm hand on Dutchie's back. The other hand clasped Dutchie's hand gently. 

J.P. smelled warm and alive; his handsome face limned softly in the light from the Pavillion. His hazel eyes were half-closed, feeling the music, guiding Dutchie gently around the verandah.

Dutchie took a shaky breath. Tried to remember to look up. He was doing it. He was dancing. With J.P. And J.P. had become his whole world.

"Not bad at all!" J.P. smiled approvingly at him. "Listen, stay here a minute. I'll get us a couple of cold lagers." and with that, the warmth was gone, and Dutchie was left reeling, heart hammering. He eased himself down onto the bench and squeezed his eyes shut.

He could die now. He'd shared a dance with J.P. Kirschstein. And J.P. had gone back inside, after having gently extricated himself. Ah, well, it had been enough. More than enough. It had been beautiful.

"There y'are!" a voice in his ear. "Drink for you."

A little gasp. J.P. had come back outside. Dutchie accepted the cold beer, taking a grateful swig.

"C'mon now," J.P.'s voice was so soft then, so inviting: "C'mere, you."

Dutchie rose. Soft music filled the night air. J.P. pulled him close; this time, both strong arms encircled him. Dutchie found that his head nestled perfectly against J.P.'s broad chest, where his uniform shirt was open to catch the breeze.

And there…there was the beating of J.P.'s heart; strong and even, against his cheek. Dutchie's eyes slid closed. He swayed. J.P. was singing softly, and Dutchie felt it -  a soft burring through the Sergeant's chest.

Maybe, Dutchie thought to himself, they'll play another song. Just one more. One more.

They did. J.P.'s arms tightened around him. Dutchie sighed happily, bravely pressing a little closer. It was the sweetest moment of his short life.

__________

AUGUST, 2015: Tofino, B.C.

J.P.'s hands drummed nervously on the steering wheel of his restored woody wagon. He'd parked at Tofino's small airport, waiting for the air taxi which would bring his grandson and his roommate from Vancouver.

His head was pounding. He's spent the previous evening on the porch of his a-frame beach house, under another set of patio lights, staring out at the water. He'd slept fitfully.

He shifted, the stump of his leg aching dully.

He'd parked at the far end of the lot. He'd wanted to give himself a little time, to be sure. He watched the air taxi land. The door opened, disgorging a few tourists, and a mother with a stroller. 

Then, his grandson, bag slung over his shoulder. And, on his heels, a smaller figure. Blond, slight, and trying to muscle an oversize bag and eat a cherry popsicle at the same time. The bag swung around, knocking the popsicle to the tarmac. The small figure stopped, looked down, forlorn.

His grandson glanced back, saw what had occurred and guffawed with laughter.

A little scowl on the heart-shaped face.

J.P.'s chest tightened. He stared at the little figure. Impossible. And yet, there he was. 

Out on the tarmac, Jeanbo turned and gave his own popsicle to little Armin. Dutchie's grandson.

__________

The back door of the woody opened. Jean plowed inside, enthusiastically clapping J.P. on the shoulder and hauling the boy in after him. Armin wet a finger and slyly stuck it into Jean's ear. This resulted in a a headlock and a scuffle in the back seat, some grunting and swearing, and then, a bright-eyed little haystack popped up, regarding him.

"This," Jean proclaimed, "this nerd is Armin Arlert!"

Serious, round eyes, the colour of the ocean. 

"Sir," the boy said politely.

J.P. stared into the rearview mirror.

"Sorry, sir," the boy chirped.

"Well, well. Hello, Armin Arlert."

__________

"So Armin," J.P. passed a third enchilada to their ravenous guest, "Jeanbo cook for you?"

"Jean," said Armin very precisely, "is horrible. He's ruining my education. One minute, everything was fine. The next, it was like tie-dye barfed in my room. He's a nightmare. But yes, he cooks me things,"

J.P.'s eyes flicked to his grandson, who lounged, chin propped in his hand, beaming at Armin.

"He cooks me things," Armin continued. "Sandwiches and chili and omelettes and sometimes," a sidelong glance, "he makes my lunch."

"Can you swim?"

"Oh, yes," young Armin assured him. "no problem."

"Well," J.P. pointed his fork, "you'll do orientation with me before I let this turkey take you out. Likely drown you."

"I would not!" Jean retorted. 

"Am I going to learn how to surf?" the blue eyes grew bright.

"Yep," both Kirschsteins replied.

"Oh…" Armin breathed excitedly.

__________

_Dear Grandpa,_

_I hope you and Oz are well. I'm not at school at present. I'm in Tofino. With my roommate. His Grandpa lives here. He's called J.P. He doesn't look like any other 70-year-old I've ever met. No offence to you, Grandpa. He has a pierced nose and a titanium leg and wears rock band t-shirts and has tanned skin and spiky hair. He cooks lovely omelettes though._

_My roommate was a challenge at first. He's very chaotic and untidy. But he looks after me. I'm not sure why. He's very colourful. His name is Jean. We've become good friends now._

_Jean's Grandpa J.P. was in Vietnam as well. He was a Sergeant. Now he's an amputee and he teaches teen amputees how to surf, and he has two successful Surf Shops. His business partner's name is Erwin Smith. He's Australian, and he has one arm. I think a shark bit the other one off but I'm too nervous to ask him._

_Please don't worry Grandpa, I am doing well at school so far. Although, I think I might change my elective from Psychology to something else. Please don't be disappointed. I'm just not sure I'm cut out to understand people as much as I'm cut out to understand fish._

_Love,_

_Armin._

__________

_Dear Armin,_

_Dump the Psychology class._

_Keep the roommate._

 

_All my love,_

_Grandpa._

 


	5. SEPTEMBER 2015: Tofino, B.C.

SEPTEMBER 2015

After Armin's fourth visit, he began calling J.P. 'Pop'. Everyone did. Jean, Farlan, Isabel, his customers and half of Tofino.

Armin never knew what to expect when he was at Pop's place.

One time, J.P. had awakened Jean and Armin at three in the morning to go outside and look at the northern lights. Armin had stood on the beach in his blanket, shivering blissfully and watching the heavens dance.

It was Pop that had christened him 'Wipeout'. Predictably, Armin Arlert was not a natural surfer. He seemed to have an odd centre of balance, and spent most of his time in Tofino under water.

He was however, the most determined novice J.P. had ever encountered. At dinner most nights, J.P. would tease him: "Ready to pack it in yet, Wipeout?"

And the soft blue eyes would go steely as Armin regarded J.P. over his juice glass. "No, sir."

And J.P. would nod.

Jean's fondness for Armin was not lost on J.P. He watched the two of them from the porch as they chased one another around the beach, wrestled, and swam.

One morning, he'd awoken early to find the two boys asleep in front of the TV, having passed out the previous night while watching a movie. Jean curled around Armin, protective and solid. Armin, safe and warm.

J.P. had gone out to Chesterman Bay that morning, alone. 

The ocean had done her best with him….she'd taken J.P.'s hurts, rolling them around like sharp sand granules until she'd fashioned them into pearls. So much healing as the years had become decades and yet…

He'd failed Dutchie. He'd failed him, so utterly. So completely. The pain nagged like a badly-set bone and he'd reconciled himself to dying with it.

And then, this small ray of sunshine had appeared on his doorstep.

He paddled in slowly, wondering if he had the balls to tell the truth.

__________

Armin loved going to bed after bonfire night at Tofino Beach. The smell of woodsmoke clinging to his hair and clothes was nostalgic, and wonderful. The rush and lull of the ocean. His fine hair tangled. His soul sated. He'd been given a small room, adjacent to Jean's. After the first night, he'd lugged the small cot into Jean's room. After all, they were used to sharing. It seemed odd to sleep apart.

That night, at bonfire, a curly-haired guy had turned up with a few friends. Armin had caught strands of conversation. The guy, it seemed, was an ex-lover of Jean's.

_Ex-lover._

Armin scrunched himself tighter beneath his duvet. It sounded so exotic. Jean was only a year older than he was, but he already had an ex-lover. How did that ex-lover feel about Jean's chest hair, and the silver bolt through his nipple?

Armin felt a possessive heat in his belly, and he scowled. 

His lips stung from windburn. He'd let his hair grow into a messy mop that hung to his shoulders. He wore a beaded necklace that J.P. had given him. He should have drifted off happily to sleep, but his belly boiled, because the sudden thought of Jean ever having a new lover was jarring and confusing to him.

Not five minutes after they had met, Jean had begun to shelter Armin, to confide in him, to feed him and coax him and envelop him. Jean was….well, his.

No, Jean was everyone's.

No, _Jean was his._

Armin rose, padded across the room, and slipped into the drowsy warmth of Jean's bed.

"I'm cold," he whispered.

"C'mere, then."

__________

J.P. Kirschstein sat at his kitchen table one Monday morning. Both boys had returned to school, and had begun what looked to be a successful term. He was alone in the house. In front of him sat his open laptop. Slowly, and with many false starts, he tapped out an e-mail. Read it. Rewrote it. Sipped on his coffee. Poured some Irish whiskey into his coffee. 

Hit 'Send'. 

Exhaled.

Before the week was out, he received a reply to his note.

Shaking, he read it. Tried to read it a second time, only his throat had swelled shut and tears coursed down his lined face. 

 _"My grandson,"_ was the reply in part, _"seems to think the world of you. His time with you and young Jean is bringing him back to himself. And for that, I am deeply in your debt. I will give some consideration to your kind invitation._

_Warm regards,_

_Dr. Armin van Arlert,_

_Manhattan, NYC._

 

Jeezus, Dutchie.


	6. AUGUST 1969: Da Nang, Vietnam

THE ORCHID PAVILLION

DA NANG, VIETNAM

AUGUST 1969

Dutchie had turned his face upward, caught in the gentle warmth of the dance. And then, the kiss had come, rain-soft. The restraint, the tenderness in the kiss had shaken him. J.P. kissed him slowly, delicately, as if prying open something so fragile that it was in danger of cracking. It was not a kiss that J.P. intended to spoil with force, although he wanted nothing more than to bruise the sweet, gamine mouth blue.

_I won't hurt you._

J.P. and Dutchie had left the dance Pavillion, strolling through the lively streets of Da Nang, toward their billet. A soft, intermittent rain had begun to fall. J.P. had his arm around Dutchie, tucking him close.

The two soldiers turned a corner, into a lane which led to the billet. And there, in the narrow gloom of a Da Nang laneway, six figures stepped out of the shadows, closing in on the soldiers.

The men wore gasmasks, and caps pulled down over their ears. They sported trench jackets, and heavy boots.

J.P. stopped short, spinning around.

"Shit," he hissed. "What d-you want?"

Silence, except for the crunching of jackboots on gravel.

"You want money?" Dutchie challenged in Vietnamese. "We have no more money. All gone."

"Stay close, Dutchie." J.P. growled.

The ring of figures tightened. Dutchie swallowed. A cold, heavy fear had settled in his belly. His eyes narrowed. He and J.P. had been through worse. 

Then, three of the figures advanced, brandishing baseball bats.

J.P. cocked his fist and swung, making contact with the jaw of one assailant, sending the man spinning.

"Dutchie!" he growled, "Armin, run!"

Dutchie didn't run. He lunged at the nearest figure, lightning quick, and attempted to grab the man's weapon.

The figure pivoted, grunting, and caught Dutchie across the chest, slamming him to the ground with the bat pressed against his windpipe.

Then, they went for J.P. 

Dutchie tried to squirm free, but the grotesquely-masked figure pinning him down was nearly twice his size.

Which was odd.

For a Vietnamese.

And then, a very American voice hissed at him through the gasmask, "Little fucking faggot!"

_No. Oh, no._

Dutchie lunged, scrabbling to rip the mask off of his attacker's face. "Sarge!" he managed to wheeze.

A scream of rage and pain, as J.P. felt hardwood connect with his shin, splintering bone. He rolled, arms flung over his head. 

In a dark alleyway in Da Nang, six of his own brothers-in-arms beat and kicked J.P. Kirschstein, shattering his left leg, breaking his ribs, and rupturing his spleen.

"Run," J.P. sobbed, over and over, unable to see his radioman through the sticky blood which coursed down his face, _"Run, Armin…."_

"Shut up, you queer piece of gurgling shit," a Southern accent. "I'll break yer other goddamn leg!"

"We said no talk!" another of the attackers hissed warningly.

J.P. clawed upward, succeeding in wrenching the gas mask off of the man that straddled him. Blinked through his blood. An American G.I he recognized.

"Shit!" the man locked eyes with the bloody figure on the ground. The scene had, in that moment, escalated past the point of no return.

"Finish it!" one of them issued a muffled order. "Beat his fucking head in!"

Dutchie went deliberately limp, eyes rolling in his head. The attacker pinning him stood, shoving the small radioman aside and turned his attention toward the writhing, bloody figure of the infantry Sergeant.

The man straddling J.P. stood and raised the bat over his head. Swung down viciously and missed, striking the pavement with a hollow ring.

It gave Dutchie just enough time. He curled up, scrabbling inside of his trouser leg for the holster fastened there.

Within the confines of the narrow alley, the gunshot echoed loudly. The figure brandishing the bat wobbled, and fell to the rain-soaked pavement. 

Dutchie stood, gun levelled, stock still and facing the pack of men.

"Who's next?" he cried. He fired another shot, into the wall beside one of the attackers.

One of them threw a baseball bat at him before they turned, and ran.

Armin van Arlert stood, trembling, between the corpse of the man he had shot, and the barely-alive form of the man that he loved.

__________

Sergeant Jean-Paul "J.P." Kirschstein was discharged after reportedly sustaining injuries during a conflict at Z 210 Valley north of Da Nang, Vietnam. Kirschstein was awarded a purple heart for bravery in the field, after leading his platoon to safety during a failed American air strike.

Corporal Armin "Dutchie" van Arlert remained in Saigon until it's fall to the Viet Cong on April 30, 1975. Between 1970 and 1975, Arlert and his colleague Danny Tran participated in an American counterintelligence initiative, breaking coded communications of the North Vietnamese. 

A U.S. Military Police report issued in October, 1971 cited that on the night of August 7, 1969, American G.I. Bruce Huxtall was shot to death in a Da Nang alleyway during an altercation with Vietnamese drug dealers.


	7. OCTOBER 2015: Tofino, B.C.

"Here!" young Armin Arlert crowed triumphantly, "here, Grandpa, is where I learned to surf!"

It was a perfect, crisp October day at Chesterfield Bay, Tofino. Gulls wheeled overhead, and the waves crashed and splintered onto the beach. A cool breeze came off the ocean, ruffling Armin "Dutchie" van Arlert's sandy hair.

"I," young Armin jabbed his thumb importantly into his chest, "can surf now!"

And he flashed an impish smile at his Grandpa. Sweet, oblivious and bursting with vitality.

"Being here has been good for you," Dutchie observed, eyes twinkling.

His formerly withdrawn, mournful little Armin trotted along the beach head, hair bleached flaxen, limbs brown, windbreaker fluttering. "C'mon Grandpa! Sheesh, you're taking forever!" Armin ran into the surf and back out again.

The two of them rounded a bend, and there stood the Pegleg Surf Shop, the bonfire pit and, on a ridge above the beach, a handsome, A-frame home.

Dutchie stopped. He found himself regretting his choice to wear his military uniform. He felt entirely out of place in this laid-back beach haven, although Armin had assured him he looked very smart.

His young grandson trotted back to him, looking at him questioningly. A dusting of freckled spattered across the tiny nose. Dutchie placed his hands onto Armin's shoulders.

"Armin," he choked a little. "Armin, my dear. You know that Jean's Grandpa and I served together. And that he's invited me here after a long, long separation."

"Uh-huh."

"With soldiers or with…." he sighed, "Well, this is a very important visit. J.P. and I...we will need a few moments. Why don't you head up to the house? I will join you soon."

Armin threw his arms around Dutchie's neck and squeezed. "It's okay, Grandpa. Pop is great. It's going to be okay."

__________

Armin ran up the walkway.

Dutchie watched as a tall figure came out of the house. He knew the set of the shoulders instantly. Armin stopped before the figure, and then was scooped into a hug and set free to go into the house.

As Dutchie stood on the beach, J.P. made his way carefully down the stone steps to the sand. He wore a purple sweater, grey board shorts and had sunglasses perched in his mad hair.

As he approached, Dutchie began to tremble, heart filling with some unknowable bliss, and melancholy.

J.P. crossed the sand and stood in front of the man who had saved his life. He clamped a hand to his mouth as tears spilled from the still-bright hazel eyes, tracking the lines of his worn face. He straightened then, raised his right hand, and saluted his radioman.

Dutchie returned the salute, and somehow, the bubble broke and he embraced his long lost companion tightly. Dutchie had promised himself composure, but he also wept unabashedly, his head on J.P.'s chest.

As the October sun lengthened it's watch, J.P. and Dutchie stood on the beach, in silent communion.

It was J.P. that broke the fragile reunion with hoarse words through his tears:

"Thank you….."

__________

Jean waltzed out onto the porch holding a pulled pork sandwich. He gave half to Armin.

"What's goin' on down there?"

"I dunno."

"Have they moved yet?"

"Nope"

Armin chomped down on the sandwich, cocking his head. "What d'you think they're talking about? Think they're talking about us?"

Jean snorted. "No! They're talking about war stuff."

"Do you think they'll ever tell us their story?"

Jean sat on a deck chair, pulling Armin into his lap. "I hope so," he said, kissing the rounded cheek.

Armin leaned back against Jean and sighed happily.

"Jean?"

"Huh?"

"I, Armin Arlert….....can surf."

__________

October at Tofino Beach brought a seasonal clam bake and beach festival. The beachhead was bright with campfires and rang with laughter and music. Jean and Armin wandered through the gatherings, greeting friends and chatting. 

Jean held Armin's hand gently, their fingers interlaced, just as their lives had become intertwined.

Jeanbo and Wipeout were a thing. Adorable and funny and completely mismatched. And falling in love.

__________

J.P. and Dutchie sat on the porch of J.P. A-frame house, watching the revellers on the beach below. There had been so much to say. And there was more still. J.P. had told Dutchie about his discharge. About his lost years in the eighties. About the marriage he'd wrecked and the daughter he hadn't. About his successful partnership with Erwin, and the ensuing rise of surf culture in Tofino.

Dutchie had told him, in the same quiet, measured tones that J.P. remembered, about the fall of Saigon. He'd just made it out with Danny Tran, and ended up in Hong Kong. It was there that he'd met Danny's brother Eric Tran, and the two had married in 1976. A close friend had carried a child for the gay couple, and Dutchie's son Miles had been born in 1978. The family had settled in Greenwich Village, and Dutchie had earned his doctorate.

The two of them sipped cold lager and listened to the music. Beach Boys. Motown.

J.P. looked over at the serene, composed man sitting on his porch. The years sat well on Dutchie.

"So," he said softly. "how's about a dance?"

A soft, gentle laugh. "I really am still not very good."

J.P. rose, offering a hand. "It ain't all that _hard_ , Dutchie. Just follow my lead."

Dutchie stood.

Carefully, J.P. embraced his long-lost soulmate.

Dutchie immediately trod on his remaining foot.

"Oops, sorry."

"Aw Jeez, Dutchie. Don't look at my _feet._ Look up."

__________

_At the dark end of the street_

_That is where we always meet_

_Hiding in shadows where we don't belong_

_Living in darkness, to hide alone_

_You and me, at the dark end of the street_

_You and me_

 

_I know a time has gonna take it's toll_

_We have to pay for the love we stole_

_It's a sin and we know it's wrong_

_Oh, our love keeps going on strong_

_Steal away to the dark end of the street_

_You and me_

 

_They gonna find us, they gonna find us_

_They gonna find us love someday_

_You and me, at the dark end of the street_

_You and me_

 

_When the daylight all goes around_

_And by chance we're both down the town_

_Please meet, just walk, walk on by_

_Oh, darling, please don't you cry_

_You and me, at the dark end of the street_

_You and me_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed Fortunate Son! Now...here's how you can participate:
> 
> Prompt: “War does not determine who is right, only who is left” - Bertrand Russell  
> Team: AU
> 
> Please leave a comment and RATE THIS FIC:
> 
> On a Scale of 1 to 10:
> 
> 1\. How in-character was my fic?  
> 2\. How well did my fic handle the prompt?  
> 3\. Overall enjoyment?
> 
> I will link in the Team Canon entry shortly, so you can check it out, too!


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